


the bitterest part of love

by orphan_account



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, also, i haven’t been on ao3 in so long plz bear with me, idk how to tag this just know that it’s kinda really depressing, okay so sorry about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-04-25 20:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: does it hurt even if you don’t know it hurts?
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	the bitterest part of love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owenwilsonvevo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owenwilsonvevo/gifts), [devereauxing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devereauxing/gifts).

> okay so... HI! literally don’t know if anyone remembers me or even cares but i figured i’d give it a shot! this is very short and very very bad and i’m sorry about that but i just have been feeling SO uninspired so i wrote this in about ten minutes and it’s completely unedited, un-beta’d, un-everything so take that as you will. i love you all so much and if anyone takes the time to comment just know that it would mean the world to me. i left the queen fandom because it was starting to get very toxic and make me very depressed but the writing that i did while in the fandom is the most inspired writing i’ve ever done. everything i posted on my old account is gone forever now which i regret, but i’m going to try and start from the ground up, i think. this might remind you of some of my old stuff and it’s bc i stole some concepts from myself hahahaha. anyway i’ll shut up now, but i hope everyone is doing okay <3 
> 
> -kitty

_Does it hurt even if you don't know it hurts?_

The wind is so fast, and Roger is so numb, and he walks against it like there's nothing that's going to stop him from reaching Brian right now. 

His head is buzzing and contains no thoughts at all other than how cold the wind is across his face, _Jesus Christ, this fuckin' weather,_ and somehow he reaches Brian's apartment building with about thirty seconds to spare.

He mashes the call button for Brian's apartment without thinking and a crackly voice says, "It's open." 

Roger barges into the lobby, ears burning, and stumbles his way to the elevator, barely remembering what number to press. Seven. He thinks. Maybe? How does he not remember? He just pressed it outside. 

Yes, Brian lives on the seventh floor. He remembers because he remembers that seven is Brian's favorite number. Of course, the prick has a favorite number. 

The elevator ride seems unbearably long and Roger is fidgeting. He pulls his scarf down from over his nose and mouth and breathes in the stuffy air like it's the last breath he'll ever take. He just needs to see Brian. He's scared.

Then again, he's always scared.

Everything hurts. Why does everything hurt? Brian hurts. Stupid Brian and his long, clumsy fingers. Clumsy with everything but his precious music. Roger can’t stop remembering everything. His wild hair. The slope of his nose, the bow of his lips, everything that drove Roger wild for years. 

He remembers the _loneliness,_ the ache of his chest whenever Brian was around, the ache of his chest whenever Brian wasn’t around. He never caught his breath. He never wanted to. 

Love at first sight is real, Roger knows because he felt it. And he loved Brian so hard, so deeply, so viciously. Roger had never felt the pure fury of love before Brian. The way love can rear its ugly head. The way love can bite. 

It bit at Roger’s wrists and his lips, and he snuck out of his and Brian’s flat every night to feel the grass under his feet, just to feel something again other than the pain of the blood rising in his lungs. He used to stare at the pond for so long. He used to touch the fish as they flickered by and smile at how smooth their scales were. He used to wonder if maybe he were more interesting, more beautiful, more fun, Brian might love him more than he did. Brian’s love was like drowning in shallow, lukewarm water. And Roger used to stare at the pond outside their flat in the darkest hours of the morning, trying to find the courage to drown in the kind of water that made him feel something again. He used to hold himself and pretend that it was his lover holding him, the way he never did. Roger’s love beat throughout his entire body. Brian’s love may have drowned him, but his own love held his face under the water. And he let it. He didn’t kick or scream. He closed his eyes. 

And Brian slept. Brian always slept. 

Now that Roger is knocking tentatively on his flat door like it’s a foreign place, like he didn’t live there for four years and make tea every morning and leave his socks where they weren’t supposed to be and drive Brian crazy with how he never did the dishes. 

Brian swings open the door suddenly, violently, like he had been waiting by it.

They stare.

“Hi,” he breathes. 

“Hi,” Roger echoes. 

“Would you, ah, like to come in?”

Roger can’t stop hearing his heartbeat wailing in his ears, but he nods. “Yeah, ‘course.”

And maybe it’s the way Brian has the fireplace going, but Roger feels his cheeks start to flush. He drowns, and drowns, and drowns again. 

Brian half-smiles. “I missed you.”

Roger keeps splashing, he keeps his head above the water but it’s so hard. He knows he’ll start slipping. 

He always does.


End file.
